Her Hunger
by Baruma
Summary: She hungers, but is left disappointed. Warning: Contains discriptions of Anorexia, be careful.
1. Chapter 1

**Her Hunger**

* * *

I am hungry, I'll admit that. But that's as far as it will go. I can't eat, and that's something some people don't understand. They say, "Oh Hermione, you're so skinny", "you're not eating", and "here have some of my sausages!"

But I can't. It's not just a will to not eat. It's not just that I think I'm fat, and flawed, though I am. I _can't_ just decide, well I don't care what I think; I'll just pollute myself with this poison. I'll just push my consciousness down below the surface and ignore the voices.

Because, unless you've met her, you _don't _understand. You don't know how impossible it is to ignore her. You can't. She takes over, and your opinions are obsolete, your mind silent, your heart numb. The only thing that matter is what she thinks.

And what she thinks, others don't like.

The worst part, I think, is the hunger. Oh yes, I feel the hunger, the knowing ache to consume the flesh of another, to have my teeth tear, to swallow and know that the acids inside of me will attack and devour just as I have, with nothing to hold them back.

But she has control over that too. The ache is bad, but worse, is the feeling of dread, when you know that you have gone against her, and she plans to retaliate. Those acids you loved just before, are churning inside of you, and instead of attacking the sustenance you just ingested, they roll around and consume your own flesh.

You can feel them working their way back up, to show you the idiocy of turning against her. They burn, your throat and mouth, and prove how futile it is to protest. Too much, and you bleed. So you don't argue.

You give in to her demands, you smile politely when they question, and give evasive little answers when they offer. The best way to do it though, is to avoid them all.

Because, they just don't understand.

They don't know how tough it is, looking in the mirror, and seeing the flaws, the every imperfections, especially compared to Ana. I think sometimes, if they could see her, just as she is looking back at me in my mirror, they wouldn't protest. They wouldn't complain.

No, they would encourage me; punish me as she does when I've gone astray. But they wouldn't stop me.

I wouldn't get these looks of disgust, the criticism in their tone. They may scoff at my attempt, to be like her, but they would let me try.

It's not all my idea though. I can't exactly tell her no, not after all this time. She showed up first, almost three years ago, flaunting herself, barely there, then gone. I barely noticed it then, the distaste for all things ingested.

I focused more on seeing her, understanding who she is, what she wants. And what she wants is me.

Which, knowing myself as well as I do, I don't really understand. But, I guess if she wants amazement, you know, acknowledgement for her accomplishment, I would be the best one to go with here because really, Ana is me.

Imagine, when Hermione Granger walks down those front stairs, and enters the Great Hall, all eyes on her, her small waist, trim legs, and petite form. Wouldn't you be shocked?

Sitting here in my room by myself, looking in the mirror at this work in progress, I can imagine their faces. Harry, his green eyes wide, Ron's large mouth gaping, and Ginny and all the other girl's faces envious. Mental daggers would be flying my way, sharper then a diamond cutter. It's a mix between laughter and sobs bubbling to the surface now, and I feel like cackling like a witch while tears pour down my cheeks.

They may be envious of the results, but not the effort. They're all down there now, eating that rich cuisine. Just thinking of the thick cloying smell, the overly sweet or salty flavor, it makes my mouth feel like cotton, and I can taste the bile in my throat.

No, there are better things to do than slowly kill my body with that poison. Instead I can sit here in the library and enrich myself, read of the past, of the efforts for our future. The wizards are trying to create a new charm to help the pureblood's cancer that comes from inbreeding, while the muggles are researching a protein in squirrel's blood that may help prevent certain types of heart disease.

Now that is a worthwhile pursuit, much better than spending at least a quarter of your waking hours gorging. But I digress…

* * *

A.N.

You probably shouldn't ask, but if you want to, go ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

You know, they say it.

And I believe them.

They say to me, 'Poor Hermione.' And behind my back, 'There's something wrong with her.' And you know, I don't know whether to laugh, or to fucking cry.

'Cause the thing is, of course. Of course there's something _fucking_ wrong with me. You can just look at me and tell. But I wonder, what is it that first catches your eye?

Is it my hips, which just happen to be round as a troll's finger? Or is it _my_ fingers, which look like little stubbly's compared to yours? Or is it my calves, at least the size of your biceps? Or the fact that Nick has more color than me?

Or is it my belly pouch, or thighs, or nose, or my soulless eyes, or the nest they call my fucking hair?

Actually, can you tell me what's wrong with me, 'cause sometimes I can't seem to figure it out myself. Note the _fucking_ sarcasm.

They don't understand me, they don't know why there's so much wrong with me. I mean, even I can't answer that question. I sit here, staring at the dirty mirror, hearing her in my head, my nails digging into my palms, and I feel sick.

I feel sick sitting here watching my self, 'cause I know there's something wrong with me, and I know that I'm not strong enough to hold back. She knows that I'm not strong enough, and she punishes me.

And knowing that they also know, knowing that they can hear me in here, and crying, it makes me sick. I know I'm worthless, I know I'm weak. The urge to fling myself against the wall is strong, to punish myself.

But Merlin knows I'm a coward. I don't deserve to be here, in the house that means courage. And she knows that I'm a coward, and she punishes me accordingly, she does it for me, out of love for me.

Staring at me, through the mirror, a look of disgust on her face, and I can feel it in my stomach. Churning and aching, begging for release. And I give in to her, purging myself of my sickness, hoping.

I'm hoping for redemption. Because it's all of it my fault, didn't you know. The looks they send my way, it's because of who I am, _what _I am. I am a disgrace. But I can't help it, I can't control myself. And I try to blame it on them, on my so called _friends._

I rant and I rave, and I blame it all on them. And they look on with revulsion. But I can't control myself, my emotions, my sickness. Because I am sick, sickening and repulsive.

And I hate myself, and I hate her, for knowing, and I hate them, for staring. I hate this blood running down my arms, because it proves I don't have control.

Because I'm not good enough.

XXX

A.N.

Okay, so I thought I might would write a bit more. Seeing as this kept me up all night, begging to be written. She's feeling it all, her disorder's. If you've ever done any research, most disorder's come in groups, not just in one's. I may add more later, make some sense. Depends on how I feel.

Sun-chan


End file.
